The Master Weaver
In the calm still moonlit night
she silently wove a silken tapestry -
spinnerets spewing slender strands
light as air but strong as Kevlar.
A silvery armature spanned the trail
clinging to trunks and branches.
Rappelling down from its pinnacle,
she fixed radii to her deadly wheel.
Spiraling in from the outer ring
she knitted her way to the center
to await the tell-tale shudder
of a fly or moth flown into her snare.
She took no note of the hiker
paused alone on the trail -
transfixed by the dew laden spiral
shimmering in the rose-glow sun.
It mattered not to the spider
that a man would find her work pleasing
and it mattered not to the man
that the web was not woven for art.
(from Wilderness Reflections)
